


Coda to 7.05

by sobrecogimiento



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-20
Updated: 2012-08-20
Packaged: 2017-11-12 12:32:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/491063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sobrecogimiento/pseuds/sobrecogimiento
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Comfort sex, after the "life in motel rooms" scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coda to 7.05

When Sam gets out of the shower, Dean’s still sitting at the same table where he left him, empty glass and bottle of cheap whiskey sitting next to him, bottle that was at least half-full last night. Sam pauses for a moment, and takes in the scene like an impressionist painting, the cheap table and the silver laptop and the empty glass containers with a small, few drops of amber liquid sitting in the bottom. Dean is staring out the window at the motel’s parking lot, into space, and the whitish, indirect light of mid-morning highlights his face in stark contrasts: the dark stubble and smattering of freckles that stand out against his pale skin, his impossibly green eyes and the ever-deepening crinkles around them and shadows beneath them, the cut of his jaw and his full lower-lip. It tugs insistently on the weight in Sam’s chest, the long line of stupid, pointless remorse fed by his brother’s infuriating insecurities—because he’s the best goddamn person Sam knows—and all the people they’ve lost. Sam runs the terrycloth bath towel through his hair one more time and lets it fall to the carpet.

 

Dean looks up as he approaches, starting in surprise before he recovers and merely quirks an eyebrow at Sam’s nudity. There is a question behind his eyes, but Sam does not attempt to address it. They are far past words. He shuts his laptop with a soft click, lets his intent show and feels a gratified pulse when Dean doesn’t back off, doesn’t protest. Sam tilts his brother’s chin up, stubble sandpaper-rough between his thumb and forefinger and kisses him slow, cursing internally at the bitter, stale aftertaste of whiskey. Dean fists his hands into Sam’s hair, wet from the shower, and kisses him back.

 

Sam leaves a final, soft peck on his lips, tugs Dean out of the chair and lifts him, strong arms circling behind his back and Dean’s legs around his waist for support. It’s too easy, Sam thinks, even though he is more physically fit than he’s ever been in his life and could probably bench-press his brother in the extremely unlikely case that Dean would ever let him try. He makes a mental note to check that Dean regularly ingests something that doesn’t come from a bottle.

 

Sam carries him over to one of the motel beds and sits down, and Dean’s kissing him in earnest, now, dragging teeth across his lips and licking hungrily into his mouth. He tries to chase Sam’s mouth when he pulls away, and Sam laughs, drags Dean’s shirts off in a single motion and tosses them on the floor before starting on his belt.

 

A deep, red flush creeps up Dean’s neck when Sam has him naked and standing before the bed, practically on display; he’s about the last person to be embarrassed by sex, but he’s only half-hard and probably sees that as an affront to his manhood after making out for so long.

 

“’S ok,” Sam murmurs, pressing kisses to Dean’s stomach, his hips, his inner thigh. He can tell Dean’s struggling to stay still, humiliated and uncomfortable with staying passive, not taking charge. But that isn’t what he needs now, and they both know it.

 

Sam lifts Dean’s dick with one finger and makes a small, disappointed noise at its state before sucking the head into his mouth. Dean gasps involuntarily and jerks his hips forward, thrusting in almost to his throat, and Sam relaxes his jaw and fights his gag reflex, trying to take all he can.

 

He can feel Dean hardening, the length and weight of him closer to what he remembers, and Sam strokes his thumbs across his brother’s hips as if to say, _See, it’s fine, you’re doing great._ He starts bobbing his head and working his tongue around him, moaning in encouragement when Dean loses what little control he had and begins fucking Sam’s mouth with shallow thrusts, breath uneven and making small, delicious noises that go straight to Sam’s dick.

 

 Dean comes a few minutes later with a bitten-off shout, and he barely finishes when Sam sweeps him off his feet and dumps him unceremoniously on the bed. He covers Dean’s body with his own, kissing the salt-and-bitter taste thoroughly into his mouth.

 

“Can I help with that?” Dean asks quietly, still blissed out. He motions Sam’s own erection, rubbing against his thigh.

 

“Mmmm,” Sam intones, as if he’s considering. “Wanna fuck you.”

 

Dean shivers beneath him. “Yeah. Yeah, ok.”

 

Sam fishes the bottle of lube out of the nightstand and starts prepping him, sinking his fingers into Dean’s hole and stretching him slowly, until Dean’s fully hard again and pushing back against the intrusion, begging him to just fucking _get on with it_ already. Sam grins and slicks his cock, kisses Dean open-mouthed and sloppy as he slides in.

 

Dean used to hate missionary, or at least complain about it enough to make Sam believe he hated it—I’m not a fucking _girl,_ Sam, Jesus—but Sam knows him too well for that, knows how, at first, the perceived vulnerability must have made his skin crawl. But Sam is addicted to this, the way Dean’s back arches off the bed and the myriad expressions of pleasure that flit across his face, the helpless O of his mouth when Sam finds his prostate and aims to hit it with every thrust, keeping him on edge and preventing him from coming down.

 

“Beautiful,” Sam breathes, because this is the only time Dean’s too out of it to complain, curls his fingers around his cock and jerks him off until he shudders and comes over his hand. He finishes soon after, fucking into Dean’s pliant body and collapsing onto him without bothering to pull out.

 

“Too heavy. Off,” Dean insists, pushing ineffectively at Sam’s shoulder.

 

Sam kisses him once more before complying and flopping down face-first on the bedspread. He reaches between Dean’s legs to feel the cooling mess leaking out of him and smiles, thinks, _mine._

 

“Gross,” Dean protests, but his voice is strained.

 

Humming contentedly, Sam tosses an arm around him instead.

 

“You gonna tell me what that was about?” Dean asks finally, against the heavy silence in the room.

 

Sam half-shrugs and settles his face against Dean’s shoulder. “Thought you needed something to take the edge off, and I figured a couple of orgasms is better than pickling your liver.”

 

Dean freezes and sits up suddenly, his back to Sam and his shoulders tense. “Yeah, well. I don’t need you as a fuckin’ substitute for ‘pickling my liver’.”

 

“Damn it,” Sam sighs, and grabs hold of his arm until Dean actually turns around and looks at him. “That’s not what I meant. I, I missed this too, and we haven’t since—”

 

“I know, Sam, I know,” Dean says hastily.

 

“I just wanted to give you _something_ and that doesn’t mean I—”

 

“Yeah, Sam, I know,” Dean repeats, more insistently. He stands and runs an unsteady hand through his hair.

 

“Come back to bed?” Sam asks.

 

He’s fixing Dean with the best puppy-eyes he can muster, and Dean looks at him and snorts, expression melting. “Am I allowed to clean up first?”

 

Sam grins. “Yeah.”

 

When Dean comes out of the bathroom, he joins Sam in the second, cleaner bed, and lets himself fall to the centre, back to chest. Sam kisses the knob of his neck and wraps an arm around his waist, settling in.

 

“You deserve it,” Sam mumbles into his hair.

 

Dean’s half-asleep. “What?” he grunts.

 

“I wanted to give you something because you deserve it.”

 

Dean stiffens against him and Sam pulls him closer. “You did the best in impossible circumstances. You’ve saved my life more times than I can count. Hell, you saved the world, remember?” He presses his forehead against Dean’s shoulder. “You deserve good things, Dean. I want to give you what I can.”

 

There’s a long, quiet minute where Dean shakes with barely-perceptible tremors. “Can we stop with the awkward pillow talk? I’m trying to sleep.”

 

Sam grins brilliantly and props himself up on one elbow to kiss his brother’s cheek. “I love you, Dean.”

 

“Am I supposed to say, ‘I love you, too’?” Dean grumbles.

 

“No,” Sam tells him. “You’re supposed to shut up and take it like a man.”

 

“Think I can do that,” Dean says, and settles in to sleep.

 

~End


End file.
